Strangers Like Me
by mebbesumday
Summary: When you're one of his friends, Baker's Prep is anything but normal.
1. Chapter 1

FIRST CHAPTER: I Wanna Know

"Nope."

John didn't even have to look up from his biology textbook to know his roommate was up to something.

"I haven't said a word in three days, John."

"Doesn't matter, your gigantic _head_ is like a broadcasting satellite. Don't even think about it. Eat your eggs."

John took a big bite out of an apple while Sherlock, one year his junior, crossed his arms and tried not to fidget. The dark-haired boy pressed his fingers together and inhaled, causing John to immediately slam his textbook shut and spring into action.

"I said _NO_!" The gray-haired boy made a fantastic show of leaping across the breakfast table to catch his fleeing roommate by a his uniform collar and tie. "Leave the women _alone_!"

"Everyone is out at breakfast, so this is the perfect time to _borrow_ one last _thing_!" Sherlock protested, using one hand to avoid tie-induced asphyxiation and the other to shove his roommate away by the forehead. "And every time I've tried to go get it after dinner, you've headed me off!"

"It's the second day of classes and you've broken into the girls dorms three times! To borrow tweezers to pick at a dead mouse!" John grunted, irritated at having his knees dragged through a, yet again, untouched plate of Sherlock's breakfast. "And while we're on the subject, get that thing out of our floor's fridge! You're going to be _suspended_!"

"They would _never_ and you _know _it!"

John rolled his eyes but wasn't surprised that he and Sherlock had already gotten into a physical altercation. Ever since he'd shown up to his second year at Baker's Preparatory and found a lanky first year dusting a skull on their windowsill, he knew that there wasn't going to be a dull night - or morning - when he was at school.

"I'm captain of the rugby team, Sherlock," John finally got a good grip on his best friend and victoriously shoved his face into a bowl of tepid oatmeal. "And lots of the boys have girlfriends in those dorms that _suspiciously_ like to come back from the showers in nothing but little towels _just_ as you're nicking their beauty kits. People let go of towels when they're surprised, git. When I say suspended, I mean by your trousers and from the flagpole."

Even though John knew he'd never let his rugby teammates string up Sherlock ever again, the play on the younger boy's fear of heights was enough to make his flailing limbs slow to a slumped pout. The girls two tables over giggled at the rugby captain. Anthea, the one he was currently trying to woo, shot him a bemused grimace over her Blackberry. John, with as much dignity as he could muster, sighed and dragged Sherlock back to 221B so that they could get this mess cleaned up before first period.

* * *

It wasn't every day that John could convince Sherlock to actually go to class, but Post-Mortem Anatomy and Physiology with Professor Stamford seemed, somehow, to appeal to the boy. Of course he would be excited for the class that most of the students in John's year dreaded. It was only natural.

Unfortunately, Professor Stamford had a strict rule about the practicum portion of the class - no one would come within an inch of the laboratory until _after_ they had completed the written portion of the semester. This sent Sherlock into a pout, dashing his hopes for lab access. He'd already tried sweet-talking the administration, but the powers that be were much too concerned that he would start to horde unsanitary things outside the lab.

They were right to be concerned.

So, Sherlock spent the first forty-five minutes of class sulking in his - John rolled his eyes just thinking about it - Mind Palace. Not that the older boy could blame him for trying to escape the boring classroom. It was a syllabus day, so John had partitioned his time between staring at a very pretty redhead, counting the number of ceiling tiles, and winking at the brunette at the table to his right.

He knew exactly what he was missing anyway. Had it memorized by heart.

_You are all very lucky to be here._ Professor Stamford was a good man, but all the teachers gave the same boring lecture at the beginning of each year. _As students of Baker's Preparatory, you will learn the ins and outs of law and order by the age of twenty. After graduation, you will have your choice of top facilities to further your education. The brightest of you will leave here with the knowledge, power, and connections to help save the world or destroy it..._

And on, and on, and on. The boy was in his third-year and couldn't believe the tripe administration was _still_ feeding to the staff. Baker's Prep provided an excellent education, but graduates able to save the world or destroy it? The school was starting to take itself a little too seriously.

A little blonde girl shuffled in just two minutes before the bell rang, but John didn't pay too much attention to her as Professor Stamford gave an introduction. Counting the seconds until the bell seemed more important at the time.

"... and although it's her first year here at Baker's, I implore that you treat Miss Hooper with the utmost respect as she will undoubtedly be useful to all of you in the coming months."

_Huh. A first-year in a third-year class... That's interesting._ John thought absentmindedly as he shoved his things into his book bag.

Apparently Sherlock had thought so too, because the boy had actually made the effort to step outside his Mind Palace. When John looked over to ask him if he would actually show his face in Criminal History later that day, he was already standing. John followed his gaze and saw him staring intensely at the little blonde girl exiting the classroom with her head bowed to the ground.

"What _now_?" Sometimes even John didn't know what was going through that strange head.

Suddenly, the dark-haired boy slung his bag over his shoulder and darted out the door after her. John sighed for probably the fifth time that morning and massaged his temples.

"Sports team conditioning hasn't even started yet," he muttered to himself, hoisting his bag off the ground.

He hastened out the door as quickly as possible hoping he could get there before Sherlock had the poor girl in tears.

* * *

Molly Hooper wasn't easily spooked. Certainly not by horror movies. Not even real dead things, because she worked half days at the funeral home for heaven's sake. And with three older brothers, she'd never been picked on at school.

So maybe that was why she was a bit confused as she felt herself turn into a stammering blob when the tall, scowling boy from her first period class cornered her against a wall.

"Please, tell me, _exactly_ how a first year managed to get into Post-Mortem Anatomy and Physiology?" He towered over her and she tried to sink into the wall to disappear. "Because even _I_ wasn't allowed to at your age."

"I -I -I... Because..." Molly tried to look sternly at the boy and tell him off like her brothers had always told her to do if she ever found herself in this sort of situation, but her words were traitorously abandoning her.

"Don't stutter. It's not appealing in any way," the boy crossed his arms and glowered at her with steely bright eyes.

Molly inhaled and tried to reply again, but was saved by a much friendlier looking boy rounding the corner of the hallway at top speed.

"_Sherlock_! This is getting ridiculous! You can't just chase a girl you don't know down the hall and interrogate her!" The gray-haired boy bellowed at the tall boy and jostled him to the side. Suddenly the shorter one smiled pleasantly at Molly and held out a hand. "I'm so sorry, my name is John, John Watson."

"Molly Hooper," she shook John's hand firmly. His warm smile seemed to get her brain working again. She turned to this Sherlock person and stabbed her index finger into his chest. "And you! I'm there under special permission from the administrators to be not just a student, but a laboratory assistant! So just... Off with you!"

Molly stepped around the flabbergasted teen and strode quickly to her algebra class. Suddenly, she stopped and turned on her heel.

"It was very nice to meet you, John Watson!" She waved before scurrying off again.

Sherlock stood, mouth open, staring at the little blonde mouse heading away from him. Girls his age didn't talk to him like that. Hardly _anyone_ talked back to him! And did she say laboratory assistant? Who did this Molly think she was?

"Ooh, I _like_ her," John's voice dragged him out of his Mind Palace and back into the slowly emptying hallway. "I like her a _lot_. Let's invite her to sit with us at lunch, then?"

Sherlock considered it for a moment and then smiled in such a charming manner it sent chills up John's spine. This was not what he had been expecting.

"Yes, I think so," Sherlock smirked. "I think so."

* * *

_Author's Note:__ It is with the heaviest of hearts that I inform you that I am not the creative owner of BBC's Sherlock, nor am I one of Baker Street's residents myself. However, I do hope that you enjoyed the first installment of Strangers Like Me. If y'all notice any inconsistencies or have any suggestions, feel free to point them out._

_Cannot currently decide whether to make actual story or 'cute' shorts._

_Best,_

_MebbeSumday _


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO: Foulest Features on Display

Beep.

_Please do try to keep a low profile this year. -M_

Tap tap tap tap tap.

_Stop trying to be Mummy. -S_

Beep.

_I only do this because I worry about you. -M_

Tap tap tap tap tap.

_And the public image. -S_

Beep.

_Brother. Please. For me. -M_

Tap tap tap tap tap.

_When you put it like that... No. -S_

"Stop it!" Sherlock looked up from his phone and took a pillow in the face from his roommate. "It's six thirty Friday morning. Who could _possibly_ need something from you at six thirty in the morning?"

"It's six twenty-nine. And unsavory relations," the younger boy corrected John before answering his question.

John heard another beep before the alarm clock on his night stand went off. He groaned and buried his head under the sheets.

"_Now_ it's six thirty," Sherlock grabbed his towel from his closet and headed out to the showers while John grumbled.

Upon opening the door, the tall boy nearly ran into a girl with her ginger hair in braids. She smiled widely at him, almost overeager.

"Hello, I believe we've met before, I'm Ki-"

Sherlock promptly slammed the door shut and pressed his back against it. John sat up and looked at him strangely.

"Sherlock..." The older boy knitted his eyebrows together.

"John," Sherlock replied, quickly rifling through his closet and pulling on his uniform.

"Is that a girl out there?" John stood up and tousled his hair, sure that his roommate had been causing trouble.

"I'd be careful about your choice of words, but strictly speaking, _yes_," Sherlock pulled on his coat and finger-combed his hair until it looked respectable. "A very _nasty_ one that I would like to avoid. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going for a climb."

"A cli - Sherlock!" John tried to stop his roommate from climbing out the window, but was distracted by the door swinging open. He could only watch as Sherlock rappelled down to the first floor using a bed sheet.

John turned around, only to be blinded by camera lights.

"Hello, I'm Kitty Riley," a frighteningly bubbly girl held her hand out for him to shake. "Could I ask you a few questions?"

"Uhm, yes, I'm sorry, who?" John hastily pulled on a jumper in case the girl decided to take more unwarranted pictures.

The girl squinted her eyes at him and pursed her lips.

"My name is Kitty Riley," she said slowly and held out a tape recorder to him. "And I'm here to ask you some questions about Sherlock Holmes?"

John bit his fingernails and glanced sideways at the open window. A morning climb suddenly seemed much more appealing.

* * *

"So would you like to explain to me _why_ a tiny reporter decided to suddenly interview me while I was standing half-naked in the middle of our room?"

John and Sherlock sat at their usual haunt in the back corner of the cafeteria. John readily spooned a few morsels of rice into his mouth while Sherlock let a bit of creamed spinach plop back into a pile on his plate. It made a squelching noise and he shuddered.

"Did you tell her anything?" Sherlock pushed his plate to the side, deciding to chew on a piece of gum instead.

"No. I practically had to chase her out of the room."

"Then it's really of no importance."

John gave his best friend a warning stare.

"I don't know yet. I honestly don't know!" Sherlock held his hands up in the air. His phone chimed and he looked down at it. A dark look passed over his face. "But I have a terrible feeling I'm going to find out. Hello, Molly, you can have my seat."

Sherlock strode out of the cafeteria as the blonde first-year set her tray on the cafeteria table. She watched him disappear and then cast a worried look at John.

"Have I done something wrong?"

"No, you're fine," John reached a hand out to pat Molly on the shoulder. "It's _him_ we should be worrying about."

They didn't hear the distinctive snap of a camera shutter beside them.

* * *

The library at Baker's Prep was beautiful to say the least. It's shelves seemed to stretch for miles, filled with leather bound works of fiction and academic journals collected over hundreds of years. Yet, few students cared to visit it, especially at the beginning of the year, making it one of Sherlock's favorite places to sit and think.

It was also Mycroft's favorite place to badger his little brother into doing something for him.

"What now," Sherlock leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table, doing everything in his power to annoy his overbearing older brother. "I haven't even done anything yet. This year."

"Not everything is about you, little brother," Mycroft sniffed from across the table and used his umbrella to scoot Sherlock's feet away from him.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows once and grinned.

"Oh. So you've gone and done something then. Much more interesting but guess what," Sherlock clasped his hands behind his head and kicked his shoes off. He waggled his socked feet in his older brothers face and sang. "I'm not helping!"

"For heaven's sake, you're almost eighteen years old!" Mycroft knocked his little brother's feet off the table and the boy quickly leaned forward to keep from tumbling over. "This is a matter of _family posterity_. And I'm not asking you to do much. Just don't answer anything that man's daughter asks you."

Sherlock, upon finally understanding what this was all about, heard a clack of heels and the swish of a skirt approaching them.

"But why not if you don't have something to hide?" Kitty Riley stood in front of the Holmes brothers, hands on her hips and camera around her neck. "_Do_ you have something to hide, Sherlock?"

"My brother certainly doesn't, Miss Riley, and I don't see how this is going to help your father become reinstated at our parents' corporation," Mycroft stood and tapped his umbrella tip to the ground. "Selling industrial secrets to the competition isn't exactly what I would call... _Legal_."

Kitty's eyes widened in shock, but then her face melted into a sneer.

"I know we're not the only ones that have issues with the _law_," the reporter squeaked and turn to Sherlock, smiling sweetly. "Isn't that right? Or did Daddy and _Mummy_ already instruct you not to say anything. Come now, Sherlock, you don't have to implicate yourself in this, you're not of age yet. When this all gets revealed to the public, you're going to need someone on your side. You know that, don't you?"

The youngest Holmes boy stiffened in response to mention of his mother and he frowned.

"The affairs of other people are of no interest to me. And, Miss Riley, while your reporting skills will certainly have you relegated to the gossip section of _The Sun_, your demeanor is likely to repel anyone you attempt to interview. Mycroft," Sherlock dismissed himself and walked towards the library exit, leaving an irritated older brother and stunned ginger in his wake.

* * *

"So... How long have you been together, then?" Molly finally worked up the courage to ask as she walked with John from the rugby field to the boy's locker room. She hadn't made many friends in her first month at Baker's, and the third-year was always nice to her. The girl also found it pleasant to read from her textbooks and do homework outside on the bleachers while her friend was practicing rugby Saturday mornings. He always liked to take a few extra laps around the field before heading to change with the rest of the boys, and she enjoyed their walks together. It reminded her of home and her older brothers.

"What?" John choked on the contents of his water bottle and burst out laughing. "Me and Sherlock? Together?"

"W-well, the way everyone talks about you two, I thought..." Molly clutched her textbooks a little closer to her chest and looked down to her trainers.

John just chuckled and tugged on the girl's ponytail teasingly. It was nice having something like a little sister when he wasn't home. One that wasn't half-drunk most of the time, anyway.

"Probably because we've built up a bit of a name for ourselves with the nonsense we got into last year. But, no, no, I'm not really into tall, dark, and smart-mouthed myself," he waved at a friendly looking girl with dark blonde hair. The girl, Sarah, smiled and waved in return. He'd given up on Anthea a few days previously. "She's more my type, actually. Do you think she'd like the circus? It's coming to town this Tuesday."

"Oh... Maybe." Molly's fingers fidgeted on the sides of her textbook and John knew what was coming next. "Does he, Sherlock I mean... Has he got a girlfriend?"

_Of course._ John thought. He wanted to roll his eyes but didn't want to hurt Molly's feelings. _The bastard doesn't have to even try._

"Not that I know of. But if you're going to go after him, you'll have to thicken up that skin of yours a bit," John grinned cheekily at the younger girl.

"What? I-I-I could never - No!" Molly tried to deny the not-so-subtle accusation of attraction, but her darkening cheeks gave her away.

John laughed and ruffled the girl's hair one last time.

"Don't worry, I won't tell him," John said before opening the door to the boy's locker room. He walked in and called out the door as Molly walked back to her room. "But you could stand to do a lot better for yourself than Sherlock Holmes!"

John went to open his locker and was greeted by a chorus of snickers and murmurs.

"Something I missed?" John quirked an eyebrow as Anderson, one year his senior and the boy he'd beaten out for captain, gave him a nasty smirk.

"Trying to lead some of the women off your boyfriend, _captain_?" The older boy shoved his smart phone in John's face.

"Oh, c'mon, leave the cap'n alone, Anderson," John heard his teammate Crosser defending him and a smattering of agreement rolled out amongst the boys that looked up to the young captain. "It's just rude chitchat from that little second-year."

John snatched the phone out of his harasser's hand and scrolled through the mass-email. He paled and then growled in frustration. Tossing the phone back at Anderson, the rugby captain threw his bags over his shoulder and stormed out of the locker room.

* * *

"Before you start, you should really think about why you find other people's opinions of you to be so important," Sherlock was engrossed in shaping the Eiffel Tower out of his potatoes when John walked into the cafeteria for lunch.

"I've been texting you all morning," John said through gritted teeth. "There's been another article emailed out now. One concerning me and _Molly_. Now, I'm not only _gay_, I'm a gay _womanizer_! That doesn't even go along with the article from this morning!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"John, I never took you to hold such wanton prejudices against people and their choices in sentiment," the younger boy deadpanned.

"Orientation and fidelity _aren't_ what I'm worried about here, Sherlock. It's my own privacy and the fact that I was going to ask Sarah Sawyer to the circus this Tuesday," John put his head down on the table. His mother was going to have his head for shirtless pictures of himself being sent around the school, and Sarah wouldn't even look at him. In the big picture sense, it wasn't such a big deal. Just a bit of rancid gossip gone wild. But he knew how this kind of stuff worked - it was all school politics. Most people would ignore it, but the select few would make everyone's lives a living hell for a few weeks. As a third-year, he was used to it. Suddenly he lifted himself up and groaned. "And _Molly_. What's this Kitty stuff going to do to _her_, Sherlock? She's defenseless against this kind of thing and you know it! What is this nonsense all about?"

"Not terribly defenseless, actually," Molly walked to the table, wearing a bowl of corn as a hat and with tea dripping down her face. "Most of the tea went into Cindy Burkholder's hair and Laura Preston has _no_ hope of getting homework help from me now."

"What _happened_?" John rushed to scoop the corn bowl off of the girl's head while Sherlock just frowned deeply.

"Apparently you're very popular with the older girls here, John, and they didn't take to a little... What did they say... Baby from the cradle stealing you away from them." Molly said lightly and then sighed, tearing up a little. "This was a new blouse, though."

"Sherlock, you're buying her a new blouse," John threatened his roommate with a spoon.

"You would look much better in blue anyway," Sherlock looked down and started tapping the keys on his phone. "And your behavior is wildly inconsistent, Molly."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to remember how boring life was before his idiot of a best friend moved into 221B.

"Just tell me how we're going to fix this," John finally pleaded. "At least for Molly's sake."

"Not quite yet. Working on it," Sherlock pocketed his phone and stood.

"Are you going to tell me or just stride off mysteriously into the depths of the library," John wiggled his fingers at the younger boy as though he were practicing magic.

"I don't do that," Sherlock gasped in mock offense.

"Don't do what?"

Kitty Riley sauntered up to the cafeteria table, hands on her hips.

"Oh, wait, let me guess, get involved with the affairs of other people? " the young reporter tittered unpleasantly and clapped her hands together, the charms on her bracelet jingling with the impact. " But, Sherlock, it looks like you already _have_!"

John saw a small light bulb go off in the dark-haired boy's brain. _Got it_, Sherlock nodded once in John's direction.

"Molly, I'll need you to meet me at the garden fountain tonight," Sherlock ignored Kitty and got up to throw away a half-eaten plate of food.

"What?" Molly looked up in shock and Kitty leered. "O-okay. What time?"

"Eight o' clock sharp, don't be late," Sherlock waved without looking back.

* * *

Molly was careful in choosing what she wore to the gardens that night. She wasn't sure exactly what had happened at lunch, but it was definitely more exciting than anything that had ever happened at her old school. Although she was rather sure that the two boys she had befriended - well, made acquaintances with at least - were some sort of trouble, she couldn't bring herself to abandon them.

Besides, her gut told her they were the right kind of trouble. The kind her dad had always told her to look for if she wanted something outside of the little country town that she'd grown up in.

At seven fifty the first-year finally decided on a green jumper over jeans and a pair of dark blue trainers. Luckily on Saturdays the administration let them go around without their uniforms. She hurried out the door to the gardens.

When she arrived at the fountain, Sherlock was already waiting for her, perched on the edge of it and reading a book by streetlight.

"It's eight-o'-one, Molly," he snapped the book shut and looked at his watch. He at her for a moment and then patted the area next to him. "Green does you wonders better than pink."

"Thank you..." She cautiously sat down next to him and crossed her legs. "Sherlock... What are we doing here? And where's John?"

"I needed to talk to you alone, Molly," he looked at her seriously and leaned forward a bit.

"Uhm... Okay...?" Molly tried to scoot away, but Sherlock just scooted after her.

"I'm deeply sorry for all the trouble I've caused you," he leaned closer and she started to feel a little uncomfortable. This wasn't the cold, calculated boy she had been introduced to.

"It's all right?" Molly was starting to get suspicious.

"Is there anything, _anything_ I can do to make it up for you?" Sherlock took her hands in his and his face was getting uncomfortably close to hers. She started to stammer.

_Snap!_

Molly was brought out of her stupor by a camera flash, and Sherlock stood up just as quickly.

"You really _aren't_ as clever as they say you are, Sherlock," Kitty Riley continued to snap pictures of a stunned Molly and a normally frowning Sherlock. "Not clever at all. Telling someone out to expose the _truth_ exactly where you'll be and exactly _when_ you'll be there? It's just too easy."

"I don't like being bothered when I'm on a _date_, Miss Riley," Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and glowered at the reporter.

_Date?_ Molly was taken aback.

"Oooohhh, a love _triangle_," Kitty whipped out a small pad of paper and started scribbling down notes. "Do _tell_."

"How about this, Miss Riley," Sherlock huffed. "Since you appear to be so keen on wasting my time, why don't we play a little game. For every question you ask, I get to ask you one as well."

Kitty looked at him suspiciously and then smiled deviously.

"All right. I'll go first," Kitty spat. "What exactly has happened to your mother?"

"According to my lovely older brother, I believe that today she was attacked by a bee in the garden and then decided to take a nap after tea," Sherlock rubbed his chin as though he were thinking very hard.

"That's not -"

"You should be more specific with what information you're looking for, Miss Riley," Sherlock cut the girl off and then stepped forward, grabbing her wrist. "For instance: Miss Riley, why did your father allow you to put this glass globule, that was _obviously_ stolen from _my_ father's laboratory, on a _charm bracelet_?"

"Because it's the only place he could _hide_ it!" Kitty Riley was suddenly livid. "Because _your_ father set the hounds on him for this stupid little thing. What is it, anyway? Some sort of new military compound? Something dangerous? Because when he brought it over to the competition, they wouldn't have anything to do with it. Even though they don't stand a chance of staying in business without a few of the Holmes family secrets, and my father was more than willing to provide it for them. So tell me, Sherlock, why exactly did they jump ship at the sight of this little thing?"

Kitty held the bracelet out in front of Sherlock's face and he snatched it away from her. He fingered the glass charm for a few seconds before smiling thinly at the reporter.

"That's more than one question. I think we're done here, Miss Riley. But I must thank you. My father has been looking for this for months. John! That's a wrap!" Sherlock shouted to the bushes and John stepped out, waving from behind a camera phone.

"Y-y-you!" Kitty screeched, distraught. "That's not fair! You can't do that! That's not fair!"

"Please, Miss Riley. I thought you of all people would be well-versed in this kind of journalistic integrity," Sherlock held the glass globe up and examined it in the light. Molly blinked a few times. She swore she saw something swirling in the tiny glass ball. "Making sure that you put the foulest feature of the subject on display. Your father would be _very_ proud."

Kitty, reduced to a sobbing, raging mess, sprinted back to the wooded path.

* * *

Molly took a second to think as John made his way over to the pair. Over the past month, she'd gotten to know John reasonably well. He was from a bit out of town and all the men in his family had been in the army for as long as he could remember. He liked sports a bit and school enough, but always felt like there was something more he could be doing with his days. Maybe that was why they'd become such fast friends - they reminded themselves a bit of each other.

But Sherlock... Sherlock was more of a mystery. She knew he was irritable and blunt, and yet somehow managed to routinely break the hearts of girls in his year. She knew he was bored easily, had no interest in schoolwork, and still somehow managed to do well in every subject, except astronomy, in the first round of tests. But she knew nothing of where he came from or who his family was. Apparently that was rather important. She'd Google him when she got home.

However, if there was one thing she did know about Sherlock Holmes, it was that he had a huge ego - and that he had just used her as bait.

"Sherlock, I sat in that bush for an hour before anything happened," John's voice brought Molly out of her thoughts. "How did you know about the bracelet, or that she would say anything? And what the _hell_ were you trying to pull with Molly?"

"I've worked in that laboratory every summer since I was ten years old. There's hardly a thing in there that I wouldn't recognize at a glance. As for Kitty, she's a simpleton, driven by emotion. And, Molly, you did reasonably well for your part except for that blasted _stuttering_ again. Perhaps it is a good thing I didn't tell you either - John was in the bushes, but you might have stammered out my plans."

Molly could see John about to get protective again, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"Don't worry about it, John. I was glad to help. That was a smart move. You really _are_ a pretty clever boy," Molly put on her best smoldering look and slowly approached where Sherlock was standing at the edge of the fountain.

"Yes, Molly, it's what I do," Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and put a hand out to stop her approach. He was used to this sort of thing and knew it had to be nipped in the bud immediately. "But you do realize that it was all an act. That green jumper is just as atrocious as the pink blouse."

"It's all right," Molly took Sherlock's hands in hers as John gaped and absentmindedly held out his camera phone. "I just wanted to make sure you knew how much I appreciated you letting me be a part of this great game."

"I see. You're very welcome, Molly, but I don't particularly enjoy close proximity, so if you could please -"

_SPLASH!_

With all the might she could muster, Molly tossed the tall boy into the fountain. He fell full in, with only his right arm sticking out to save the bracelet he'd confiscated from Kitty.

"_Excuse_ me!" Sherlock spluttered as he resurfaced and shook his hair out of his face.

"I am more than just _bait_, Sherlock Holmes!" Molly shouted to him over the sound of John's raucous laughter. "I'm more useful than you think! Remember that!"

Sopping wet, the boy could only watch as mousy Molly Hooper walked away from him, head held high.

* * *

Tap tap tap tap tap.

_Since when did family posterity become a euphemism for national security? -S_

Beep.

_Since when has it not been a euphemism for national security? -M_

Tap tap tap tap tap.

_Stop sending toys I don't want to play with to school. -S_

Beep.

_Stop bathing in the garden fountains. -M_

Sherlock peered suspiciously over his phone.

"YouTube," John replied to the silent question, smiling but not looking up from his laptop. Now that he knew the past few days had been about family matters, he knew better than to ask too many questions, so the older boy kept the conversation light. "I have a feeling Molly Hooper isn't going to have any trouble finding female friends from now on. If you're lucky, maybe she'll still stick around for you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes to show John he didn't care unless she was going to get him into the anatomy lab. But he made a mental note to purchase a new pink blouse anyway.

* * *

_Author's Note:__ It is with the heaviest of hearts that I inform you that I am not the creative owner of BBC's Sherlock, nor am I one of Baker Street's residents myself. However, I do hope that you enjoyed the second installment of Strangers Like Me. If y'all notice any inconsistencies or have any suggestions, feel free to point them out._

_Is it true that the third season is coming out on Halloween?_

_Best,_

_MebbeSumday _


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE: Blazing

John had been right. Molly Hooper had little trouble making friends after the video of her unceremoniously shoving Sherlock into the garden fountains had gone viral at Baker's Prep. In fact, some senior girls she'd never met before had stopped her in the hallway just to shake her hand.

But Molly had not taken kindly to being used as bait, as though she didn't mean a thing. That's why she had left her little hometown - to escape a life as a housewife or a shopkeeper when she could be doing something just a little bigger, a little better.

Even though they were still something like friends, she'd finally put aside all the thoughts and feelings that had been welling up inside her for the past three months. Molly had Googled Sherlock and read enough on the Holmes family Wiki page to know that he came from money. So, forget him, and his cheekbones, and his curly dark hair, Molly had told herself. If he needed something from her, he could come ask for it instead of complimenting her part or touching her shoulder and expecting her to obey his every whim. She winced as she remembered the frog leg she'd given to him after he'd physically inspected her ponytail and deemed her hair well-cared for.

Molly Hooper's biggest fear was that as a sweet young girl, she wouldn't ever be taken seriously in her field of choice. It was a man's world out there after all. She'd have to compete with every one of them if she wanted to become a top notch pathologist.

_Which isn't going to happen,_ she thought, _if I can't get this blasted microscope to work._

When Molly had been offered a job as a lab assistant at Baker's, she'd imagined independent experiments and discoveries leading to publication - not a work-study that had her fiddling with damaged equipment until past dark. But, if this is how she was going to earn her scholarship money, so be it.

She finally found a clipped wire in the microscope's bowels and shoved it into the box she would take to the electrician tomorrow. Burnt out light bulbs she could deal with, but circuitry? She wasn't a miracle worker.

The lab door creaked open and footsteps quietly approached Molly from behind.

"If you thought giving me a week's worth of space is going to weaken my resolve, Sherlock, you are sorely mistaken," she continued packing up the box in front of her.

A familiar laugh sounded from behind her and Molly's heart nearly leapt out of her chest.

"Sherlock? Don't tell me you've already forgotten all about me, Molly."

Eyes wide, the girl whirled around and stared at the person standing in front of her. Finally, after overcoming the shock, she smiled.

"Jim!"

* * *

"We were best friends the summer he spent in town. I haven't seen him since we were twelve!" Sherlock frowned as he saw Molly hug _Jim_ tightly round the middle. He also didn't fail to notice as his old acquaintance's arm snaked around the girl's waist, pulling her closer.

"I never thought Baker's would let me enroll this late into the year, so you can imagine my surprise when I was admitted. But seeing Molly last night after so long is just _fantastic_!" Jim grinned and squeezed her side, making the girl squeak. "She's still as ticklish as ever. Actually, I was surprised that Molly knew you, Sherlock. It's been _ages_."

Molly looked back and forth between the two boys, confused.

"You two... know each other?" Molly asked hesitantly.

"Yes, Molly," Sherlock stared Jim Moriarty straight in the eye. "Do you remember the little _incident_ we had at the fountain? This is the delightful spawn of the man who's company tried to steal my father's inventions two months ago. Hello, spawn."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group until John cleared his throat.

"Well... Hello, I'm John. Where overseas did you spend your time?" The older boy shook Jim's hand carefully.

"I was in America for a few years -"

"More than likely being taught some sort of _criminal trade_," Sherlock was starting to get even more irritable and stood to dump the remainder of his lunch in the bins. He faced Molly and glared at her so intensely it was unnerving. "If you're attempting to waste your time on someone, Miss Hooper, there are _plenty_ of more palatable suggestions I could make. Afternoon, everybody."

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat and Molly just stared.

"Oh, don't worry," Jim chuckled. "He's always been _such_ a grumpy little cat."

* * *

Late that night, Sherlock found himself in the library again, trying to calm his thoughts. The whole reason he'd come to this school instead of going somewhere to pursue his passion for science or his brother's wish that he acquire a position in the government was to get away from people like _him_. He thought about texting Mycroft, but decided the situation wasn't dire enough to stoop to that level. Perhaps Jim had simply come here to annoy him.

"I'd heard you acquired a guard dog as a pet, but I _never_ thought you'd want something softer and prettier to play with, Sherlock."

As his old playmate's lilting voice grated against his ears, Sherlock was increasingly sure that his motives for coming here were far from innocent.

"John is not my _pet_ and pretty things break easily," Sherlock growled out a response and continued to fiddle with his phone.

"Oh, don't play innocent. If you didn't care about her you'd have walked away the second you saw me coming," Jim sat on the desk and pinched Sherlock's cheek. "Been keeping up with my exploits while I've been away? Honey, you're just too cute when you worry."

Sherlock slapped the boy's hand away and scooted away from him.

"Why are you _here_, Moriarty," Sherlock stood. Even though he was a bit younger, he was taller now, and he wanted to make an imposing impression.

"Ooh, I've been gone so long we're on a last name basis now?" Eighteen-year-old Jim Moriarty clapped a hand to his chest and feigned offense. "Don't be boring - make a deduction, Sherlock. Isn't that why you came here in the first place? To get away from the family business? Spend the rest of your life running after that dream of playing detective?"

Sherlock scowled.

"Mm. Not in the mood to participate, are we? All right, then. But I'll have you know _Molly_ was very upset that you didn't want to play nice at lunch today," Jim clicked his tongue and wagged a finger in Sherlock's face.

"I fail to see what our parents' companies want with _children_, but I'm even more confused as to how someone as blindly trusting as Miss Hooper fell into a friendship with someone like _you_," Sherlock clipped back.

"Please, I was _twelve_. It was a more innocent time and place. Not one that I look too fondly on, mind you. Things got much more interesting when _we_ had each other over for tea," Jim put his hands to his face and batted his eyelashes. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Where's that imagination of yours gone? We're not children anymore. We've got the whole wide world in front of us as young adults. Think of the things we could do together. Like old times."

"I'm no longer interested in simple tricks and petty scandal," Sherlock frowned deeply. "You'll have to look elsewhere for a partner."

"Oh, it's not about the plotting anymore. I'm a free spirit now. It's all about having fun," Jim smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Maybe Molly will play with me, if you've scared her off already."

"Don't -"

"Cats are nice. I love dogs, though. Maybe John will want to come too."

"_DON'T!_" Sherlock clenched his fists and shouted.

Jim had an amused look on his face and put his hands up in admission.

"All right, all right, we'll work our way up, then," Jim smirked and played with his necklace. He fingered an alarmingly familiar glass bubble on the end of it. "I haven't finished making all the toys anyway."

"_Where_ did you get that?" Sherlock hissed. "Kitty was stupid enough to wear something like that as jewelry, but you -"

"Shhhhh, don't worry, Sherlock," Moriarty pressed a finger to his lips. "It's just a bargaining chip, so that you know I'm serious. And so no one knows about the game before I'm ready. It sets my heart ablaze with jealousy that you've found other companions. Anyway, if you want to play, just let me know!"

With a wave, Moriarty started to walk away from the Holmes boy.

"You haven't even told me the _game_," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"All part of the fun," Moriarty sang. "Figure it out."

* * *

John noticed a small change in Sherlock's behavior over the next few days. While previously the boy liked to run off and do things on his own, he hardly left John's side. Then, suddenly, as though he'd finally decided that John wouldn't spontaneously combust, he wouldn't stop pestering Molly.

"I told you, we just went to go watch the soccer game. W-why does it even matter to you?" Molly shuffled papers as Sherlock followed her around the lab room and John sat doing homework in the corner. Or trying to at least. It was like listening to an old couple bicker. "It's sweet that you're worried, but Jim can't be responsible for what his parents do."

"Molly, I know you think I'm trying to be a good person, but this is literally only to ensure your safe -"

"Don't put words in my mouth. Sometime you're a _terrible_ person," Molly shook her head as John stifled a laugh. "But I'm sure, in some sociopathic way of yours, you're trying to be your version of _sweet_. And I know this, because you're my _friend_ and I _trust_ you. Now, I might be nothing more than a toy to you, but I'm allowed to hang out with other people."

"You're not a _toy_, I just -"

"That's _final_, Sherlock," the younger girl threatened him with a stapler. "You're not my keeper. You can't keep me chained up."

The boy finally shoved his hands into his pockets and sat down next to John, pouting.

"Don't be sore, you kind of had that one coming," John tapped his friend's shoulder with a pencil. "You can't go ignoring her when she's not convenient for you and then expect her to listen to whatever you say."

"He's dangerous. You don't understand," Sherlock muttered.

"He's a half year older than you. And I would if you'd explain to me, like friends are supposed to," John quipped.

"I... _Can't_," Sherlock sighed.

"Fine then," John shrugged and returned to his homework.

Sherlock glowered. He hated keeping secrets from John. No one else could make him feel that guilty about it.

_In chains, huh?_ Sherlock thought to himself and started tapping keys on his phone.

_Woman. -S_

Beep.

_Mr. Holmes. What a delightful surprise._

Tap tap tap tap tap.

_Skip the pleasantries. I'm calling in a favor. -S_

Beep.

_Oh, anything for you. Give me a bit, though. Something to take care of overseas._

Sherlock pocketed his phone and retreated to his Mind Palace to think.

Maybe Molly would take to _her_ a little better.

* * *

_Author's Note:__ It is with the heaviest of hearts that I inform you that I am not the creative owner of BBC's Sherlock, nor am I one of Baker Street's residents myself. However, I do hope that you enjoyed the third installment of Strangers Like Me. If y'all notice any inconsistencies or have any suggestions, feel free to point them out._

_I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing._

_Best,_

_MebbeSumday _


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR: Topsy Turvy

During November an illness had swept across the entire faculty and staff of Baker's Prep, reducing class sizes, and cancelling lectures. Even John had caught it, right before the holidays, and spent a miserable week unable to do anything but sip soup from under a snuggie and listen to Sherlock mutter to himself about mold, anatomy, and some sort of game. Despite all odds, John's roommate managed to stay healthy until the end of mid-year exams, and the boy made no effort to conceal his smugness.

"It's mind over matter, John," he'd daintily sipped tea from a cup as John glowered at him from behind a pile of tissues. It wasn't fair that his insomniac of a roommate had escaped the flu for so long.

So, perhaps, it was divine providence that on Christmas Eve, the Holmes boy found himself very, _very_ ill.

_John, if convenient, please return to Baker's. -S_

No response.

_ John, if inconvenient, do so anyway. - S_

Still nothing.

_ John, I am dying. - S_

Beep.

_You're not dying, you great prat. -J_

Beep.

_ You're bored and I'm enjoying a lovely dinner with my parents and Harry. -J_

Sherlock growled from his position under several wool blankets. They were itchy. It was annoying. And there was nothing to _do_.

John, along with most of Baker's Prep, had returned home for the holidays, leaving the Holmes boy to his own devices. Normally, he would have taken the time to do some experiments or at least puzzle about what _Moriarty_ was playing at. But after a fellow student had accidentally eaten one of the frog legs Sherlock had been pickling, administration had forcefully dumped all his experiments, and Jim hadn't given him a clue as to what was going on in weeks. (Most likely to annoy him.) It was enough to drive him mad.

He. Was. _Bored_.

He heard a few scratches at the door and a meow.

Wonderful. His brain had already begun to rot and now he was hallucinating.

_Meow_.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and walked towards the noise. Perhaps this was worth investigating.

He cracked open the door and a little gray kitten nosed his way into the room.

"Where did you come from?" Sherlock murmured as he picked it up with one hand. Domestic pets were relatively intelligent. Maybe he wouldn't die of boredom after all.

"Sherlock!"

The boy stuck his head out the door of 221B.

"Don't you _dare_ experiment on my cat!"

* * *

Sherlock's monotony was temporarily alleviated when Molly invited him to walk Toby with her.

"You do realize that Baker's has a strict no pets policy," Sherlock sniffled through his scarf. It was cold in the hallway, but anything was better than sitting in his empty room.

"It's only temporary until the snow melts," Molly walked beside him at a leisurely pace and Toby the cat obediently followed suit. "I can't even take him walking around outside, the poor thing. He'd sink straight into the snow bank. But as long as I feed him, he's quiet. Why are you still here, Sherlock?"

"I've elected to stay until my older brother beckons me home for Christmas dinner," Sherlock said simply. "I take it there's not quite enough money to send you home for the holidays this year."

Molly frowned, but did her best not to take offense. Once Sherlock had stopped hounding her about Jim, he'd taken to helping her fix things around the lab after hours. She was starting to get used to his overly blunt observations, and the boy had finally fallen back into her good graces.

"Not quite enough. We can't all be rich like you. Why don't you just drive yourself home? It's not like you have to pay airfare or buy a number of train tickets like me."

Sherlock pursed his lips and scuffed his shoe on the common room carpet.

"I can't drive myself home."

"What, Mummy and Daddy didn't buy you a car that you liked?" Molly teased as she picked up a yawning Toby and settled into a chair by the fireplace.

Sherlock flopped onto a couch and covered his eyes with a forearm.

"Think carefully on that sentence, Molly, because I'm not going to say it again."

Molly thought for a moment.

"Oh. You _can't drive_ yourself home," she said absentmindedly, petting Toby. "How did that happen?"

Sherlock sighed and peeked an eye out from under his arm. His head was pounding.

"An unfortunate incident involving an expensive borrowed sports car and a number of ducks left my parents under the impression that I could get my license later. Much later."

Molly's eyes widened.

"Did you _kill_ all the ducks?"

"No," Sherlock coughed. "But sometimes cars, when brought to a sudden stop, will flip and demolish mailboxes."

Molly burst out laughing.

"Are you telling me that coldhearted Sherlock Holmes stole a sports car from his parents, went for a joy ride, and botched the whole thing - all to save a line of ducks?"

"Three ducks and several ducklings, Molly, are enough to make an excellent meal and shouldn't be wasted," Sherlock tried to make a flippant remark but was hacking now. Perhaps he should have had taken some medicine this morning after all.

"Are you all right? Sherlock? _Sherlock?_"

* * *

About half an hour later, the Holmes boy found himself, again, under a few layers of wooly, itchy blankets. This time, however, he was under threat of a very concerned Molly that had returned from the dorm kitchens after half carrying him back to his room.

"I _told _you, I don't drink coffee," Sherlock whined as Molly stuck a thermometer in his mouth. "And get this _thing_ off my head."

Molly held the damp cloth against his forehead, and he didn't quite have the energy to struggle.

"Stop griping. If you don't want the coffee, drink your soup," Molly retrieved the thermometer and examined it in the light. "That's what I thought. Thirty-nine degrees. You've got a fever, and you're not going to get any better if you don't _rest_."

"Rest is sitting around doing nothing. Rest is boring," Sherlock pouted and snapped his mouth shut.

"Are you kidding me? Sherlock, you're older than I am, drink your soup."

Sherlock just glowered at her.

"You're acting like a baby, Sherlock. Don't make me treat you like one."

Sherlock crossed his arms and stuck his nose in the air.

"Fine."

Before the boy knew what was happening, Molly had pinched his nose shut and force-fed him a spoonful of chicken soup.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock spluttered, choking down the broth.

"Making sure you don't die, you dolt. When was the last time you ate something?" Molly offered him the bowl and, with as much dignity as he could muster, took it from her and started sipping.

"Two days ago. One and a half if you count some peanuts."

Molly sat down on the bed opposite him and crossed her legs. Toby curled up around her feet.

"John's right - you wouldn't survive two weeks without him. He was ready to drive back to Baker's when I called and told him about the state that you were in. He thought you were just bored and started apologizing in advance for whatever you were doing. And he recounted a lovely story entitled The Cranky Stomach Flu Victim."

Sherlock snorted, but she saw his cheeks turn a little red. Molly grinned with a bit of satisfaction. The two sat in a strangely amicable silence for a few minutes and Molly took in her surroundings. John's side of the room was nearly spotless, save a gray jumper thrown over the back of his desk chair and an unwashed mug on holding down a stack of papers.

Sherlock's side, however, was an absolute disaster. Books were strewn all over the floor, and the paperbacks were smashed into each other, their covers folding oddly at the edges. His bed had obviously been left unmade for months. And was that a _moldy sandwich_ on the floor?

"No wonder you got a stomach sickness with this kind of stuff sitting around," Molly gingerly picked up the plastic bag encasing the offending sandwich.

"Please don't disturb my experiments, Molly," Sherlock gulped down the last of his soup and stretched out on his bed.

"B-but, it's unsanitary, Sherlock!" Molly protested.

"Don't start stuttering again, we've made so much progress since the first day we met," the Holmes boy yawned and Molly rolled her eyes.

"You're not as intimidating when you can hardly walk," Molly quipped. "Or, apparently, when you need your hair held back because you can't stop vomiting."

Sherlock muttered some curses about his roommate but paused when the damp washcloth was removed from his head and replaced by a cool hand.

"Proximity," he grumbled, but it was comforting. The treatment reminded him of his mother and nannies when he was younger.

"Your fever might not go down for a bit," Molly ignored him and pulled some fever medicine from John's shelf. She poured a cup of water and set it on Sherlock's desk. "Eat these. They'll help you sleep and keep your temperature down. You might even feel well enough to smart-mouth your brother on the ride home tomorrow."

"Unfortunately, I'll be enduring that car trip tonight, and I'd like to be as far away from lucid as possible while I'm in the car with Mycroft," Sherlock refused the medicine, but when Molly made a motion towards his nose, he snatched the cup and the pills from her, downing it in one gulp.

"Happy?" The boy snapped at her.

"Elated," she laughed, petting his head as though he were a child. "If you're still here tonight, I'll check on you. Come on, Toby."

Sherlock scoffed and closed his eyes as Molly shut the door softly behind her. Most of the people at school would have probably been running scared from him by now, or have roughed him up a bit at least. He knew it took a special type of person to put up with the him, but also knew that every pattern had its outliers. He himself was one of them, certainly. And John too.

The Holmes boy sighed through his nose and felt a medically induced drowsiness settle in.

It looked like he was going to be stuck with Molly Hooper for a long time yet.

* * *

It was early Christmas morning, and Toby meowed in distress as a heavy comforter fell on him.

"Well, that's what you get for clawing at my sheets," Molly yawned and rolled from the bed to rescue her pet.

She'd gone to check on Sherlock around eight last night, and he'd still been sleeping like a baby.

_Which he is_, she reminded herself strictly when she thought about how sweet he'd looked. _A gigantic baby_. But the girl still smiled at the memory. His brother had probably come late to pick him up. What had he said his name was... Mycroft?

Toby meowed again and pawed at the door, asking to be let out.

"All right, all right, I'm coming," Molly cracked open the door and let Toby out. She was about to follow him when she stumbled over something sitting at her doorstep.

The girl bent down to examine what appeared to be a pet-carrier. She opened the cage and gasped at what she saw inside.

One airplane ticket for later that afternoon and one for a flight back the day before school started up again. Molly gaped. Who could have done this?

A small scrap of paper fell out of the cage and she picked it up.

_You'll be home for Christmas dinner. _

_ Do not touch my sandwich._

_ You are insufferable._

_- Sherlock_

Molly put a hand over her mouth and blinked back happy tears. For once, it seemed that Sherlock Holmes was going to be kind to her.

And that was a Christmas gift she never expected.

* * *

_Author's Note:__ It is with the heaviest of hearts that I inform you that I am not the creative owner of BBC's Sherlock, nor am I one of Baker Street's residents myself. However, I do hope that you enjoyed the fourth installment of Strangers Like Me. If y'all notice any inconsistencies or have any suggestions, feel free to point them out._

_Best,_

_MebbeSumday _


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE: Christmas Dinners

"That's really how it happened, I wasn't expecting to even come home at all, and it's, it's just the most wonderful thing in the world, and I'm so sorry that - oh! Toby, don't rattle around in your carrier like that!"

Molly Hooper sat in the back seat of a cab, trying to wrestle on a large backpack without dropping her pet.

"Ah, let me help you with that!" The cab driver clicked off the ignition and scrambled to pull Molly's suitcase from the boot of the car. He didn't want her to end up in a pile of heavy luggage when it was this snowy outside.

"Oh, no! It's all right, it really is, I'm so sorry. I'm so glad that I could find a cab on Christmas evening, and you should be home with your family, and -" Molly stuttered as she followed the cabbie to her front door. She sighed and shook her head at herself as he set her blue suitcase down on the front porch. Finally, she smiled. "I just mean thank you very much, Mister...?"

"You can call me Seb, honey," the man chuckled, but made a mental note to never call a little kid honey again. It creeped him out."Have a Merry Christmas!"

"Molly?"

Before Molly could respond, she was turned around and pulled into a bone-crushing hug by Lucas Hooper. The oldest of the Hooper children, he was also the largest, with ginger hair and the build of a boxer. Molly struggled to extricate her face from Luke's hand-knit sweater and heard a stampede of footsteps dashing towards the front door.

"See Mum, Dad? I told you I heard her talking!" Luke let go of his sister and ruffled her hair.

"Auntie Molly, Auntie Molly!" Luke's twin daughter and son reached up to the girl, begging to be held.

"Princess, what are you doing home?" Mr. Hooper, with a grin on his face, lifted his daughter off the ground and twirled her in the air like he did when she was a little girl. She was forever telling him not to do that. _I might not be a medical professional yet, Daddy_, Molly always said. _But I'm getting heavier, and if you keep doing that, you'll break your back!_

"It's a long story, Daddy, but my friend wanted me as far away from his sandwich as possible," she giggled as the gray-haired man placed her gently on the ground.

"Molly, sweetie, tickets must have cost a fortune this late! How on earth - is that a cat?" Mrs. Hooper swept her daughter into a hug and was stroking the girl's hair from her face with cool, wrinkled hands before she noticed the carrier.

"Uh, yes..." Molly grinned sheepishly. "That's Toby. Sort of an animal rescue situation."

"Molls! Robbie emailed me that video of you shoving that kid into the fountain. Brilliant!" Peter Hooper, who actually _was_ a boxer, stole his sister away for a hug.

"Good to know you can defend yourself," Robbie Hooper, only five years older than Molly, enveloped the girl with his lanky arms before pushing his glasses back up on his nose. "Peter's been worried that he'd have to do bag work on some teenage boys."

"Oh, they're not all that bad," Molly grinned.

"And the classes?" Luke asked tentatively. He was the first to help Molly with the lengthy application process for scholarship students at Baker's Preparatory. While Peter had been worried that the richer school kids would pick on her, and Robbie about whether or not their lab equipment would _really_ be top of the line, Luke had wanted to make absolute sure that the high end public school had every resource Molly needed to become a top-notch pathologist.

"The classes are great! Professor Stamford is awesome!" Molly balled her hands into fists and jumped up and down in excitement. Mike Stamford was the professor who had awarded her an assistantship, and thus, most of her scholarship money. "It's tough, but I _love_ it. Oh, you won't believe it, the stuff that they have for us at St. Bart's if we take the medical track. There's so many papers in that library, and I heard that one year they had a field trip to the states to visit the CDC, and -"

"All right dear, all right, let's get the turkey all cut up and you can tell us everything about school over dinner," Mrs. Hooper interrupted with a smile, ushering everyone into the dining room.

"I'll get the big knife out and -" Mr. Hooper followed the crowd into the kitchen, with Molly trailing close behind him, before doubling over in a violent coughing fit that racked his whole body.

"Dad!" Molly ran to his side with a handkerchief. "Daddy, are you feeling okay?"

The furrowed lines on the man's forehead softened as soon as he heard his daughter's voice. He waved away her handkerchief and cleared his throat. There was nothing Patrick Hooper wouldn't do for his wife and kids. And that included stopping a coughing fit in its tracks.

"Just getting overexcited about that juicy turkey your mother has in the kitchen," Mr. Hooper teasingly pounded his chest with a fist. "Your old man is still as strong as a horse! Now let's grab some of that food before Lucas inhales it."

Worry slipped away from Molly's heart as she followed her father into the warm kitchen. Everything was just as she remembered. Mismatched silverware by flower-patterned plates, all set around a massive, home-cooked dinner. The chip in the wall from when Robbie had realized he needed glasses. The crayon drawings tacked onto the fridge from when all of them were children. It was like she never left. Baker's Prep may have been her ticket to a great career, but this would always be her home.

Molly's family was well.

Her future was bright.

Her friends were wonderful.

This was what Christmas was all about.

* * *

_I hope you didn't give Molly too much trouble, twat. Feeling better? -J_

"Is the boyfriend sick, Johnny?"

Twenty-two-year-old Harry Watson leaned over the top of a worn, green sofa and pulled on her little brother's ear. John scrambled forward to get away before she mussed his hair.

"Harry," John said firmly as he rubbed his ear. "Sherlock is _not_ my boyfriend. He's my roommate. My best friend. But. He. Is. Not. _Not_. My boyfriend."

"Okay, okay! Watch your tone of voice, I'm still weaning myself off the sauce! So you _have_ to be nice to me!" Harry teased her brother. An alcoholic for three years now, she was doing her best to curb her addiction, despite any withdrawal fits that going cold turkey gave her. And if there was anything that John was proud of his sister for, it was the fact that she could shove humor, wanted or not, into any situation. "Oh, c'mon, Johnny, there's no shame in it. Look at me! Mum and Dad love Clara. And it's not like you've exactly been a Casanova with the ladies over at Baker's, is it?"

"If Sherlock and I were to be in a romantic relationship, he might die from emotional overload, but more likely because I would strangle him. Have you seen the way he treats the girls running after him? He'd ignore me until I went mad. And I'll have you know that despite that stupid email mess, Sarah was _very_ happy on our _date_."

"Haah!" Harry let out a bell-like guffaw. There was no other way to describe Harry's laugh, but John wouldn't trade the moments where he heard it for the world. "That picture was _priceless_. Mum nearly fainted. You and that Sherlock fellow are life partners for sure, Johnny, whether you like it or not."

John rolled his eyes and shoved his phone back into his pocket. Life partners. He could settle for that.

"John! Harriet! Dinner's just out of the oven! Set the table!"

George Watson's drill sergeant voice rang throughout the house. John shot a grin at Harriet before sprinting his way into the kitchen. It was a game their dad had made to get them to do chores when they were kids - first to get it done was first to get dessert.

"Ooh! Careful!" Helen Watson lifted a plate of sweet potatoes over her head as her children flew past her. "This isn't the rugby pitch."

"No, there would've been a series of knock-ons if we were playing rugby," Harriet chimed in, wrestling with John for the soup spoons.

"Why do we _always_ have to talk about that?" John groused. His first rugby match at Baker's Prep had found him in a nervous wreck, causing John to lose his team possession of the ball several times. Even though he was now the youngest captain Baker's had seen in ages, Harry never let him live it down. "At least I didn't spill tomato soup all over a CEO at Hook and Anchor's!"

Harry won in the end by shoving a chair in John's way as he tried to put the last fork in its place. The dining room, separate from the kitchen, was spotless as always. Four green rimmed plates with blue rimmed bowls on top of them at each end of a square table, the silverware in perfect alignment on either side, and a wine glass perched in the upper right hand corner. Mr. Watson marched in with a steaming turkey, followed by Mrs. Watson and a bowl of fresh cranberry sauce.

"And let's not forget the Tale of the Melon Baby," George grinned, as he sawed away at the turkey, placing thick slices on everyone's plate before serving himself. Harry and John both blushed at the memory. They had been two and seven at the time and at a formal event with their parents. The Watson siblings' sense of adventure had gotten the better of them, ending in a demolished snack table and a very unhappy John with his head stuck in a watermelon. There had been seeds stuck up his nose, but luckily Helen Watson was a nurse and always prepared. One very unfortunate encounter with a tweezer later, John was seed-free.

"Speaking of _melons_," Harry raised her eyebrows suggestively. "Who's this Molly girl that you've been going on about in your emails?"

"Ah, just a _friend_, Harry! Like a _sister_, but less annoying!" John swallowed a delicious slice of turkey and wagged his fork at his sister. "I think she fancies Sherlock, though. We're all in Professor Stamford's class together - you know, Dad's old mate that works at St. Bart's. And, yes, school is going swimmingly, thank you everyone for being _exceedingly_ worried about the quality of my education."

Harry rolled her eyes. John was a hard worker when it came to schoolwork, but that hardly meant he liked to _talk_ about it.

"Oh, how is Sherlock doing?" Helen had met the boy once when she and her husband had driven up to Baker's Prep to visit John. Miraculously, Sherlock had managed to keep his tongue in check, and while John's parents thought he was a bit strange, they had a reasonable impression of him. Admittedly, that might have been because John neglected to tell them about the times Sherlock had managed to land them both in detention last year.

"I hope you've been telling those boys of yours to keep their hands off of that young man," George Watson frowned a bit, remembering when John had phoned home about having to rescue his younger roommate from a flagpole.

"Most of them are all right with him now," John fudged a little. Most of his teammates _tolerated_ Sherlock while he was under the respected Captain Watson's protection. "He's always off on his own doing some experiment anyway, or doing some boxing if Coach Lestrade can drag him off to gym."

Harry snorted. "You make it sound like Sherlock doesn't have separation issues. Remember when you came home one weekend for Mum's birthday? Your phone didn't stop buzzing the entire time."

"Harry, Sherlock threw me out of the room for _breathing_ too loudly while he was trying to think. I can assure you that he is _not_ having separation issues!"

The whole family laughed when John's phone beeped just seconds later.

* * *

_Feeling fine better, despite being force fed. Just trying to avoid Mycroft now. -S_

"Sherly?"

Sherlock looked up and was blinded for a moment by the darkness of the room. He gave himself a minute to adjust after tearing his gaze from the glow of the cell phone screen. Finally, when he could see the dim outline of a soft pink bed and the shadow of the woman laying down on it, he stood.

"Yes, Mother?" Sherlock, staying in the shadows, made his way over to the bed and kneeled down beside it.

"Oh, darling, why didn't you wake me?" Almeda Holmes smoothed her youngest son's hair from his face. Sherlock smiled silently. Home wasn't always terrible. "Mycroft came up yesterday for a game of chess and told me that you'd phoned him to book a very special present for a young lady."

"Just a friend," Sherlock replied. "Don't listen to anything Mycroft says. He's a liar."

"You really never have forgiven him for breaking that toy of yours, have you?" Almeda laughed softly and patted Sherlock's hand. She could still remember when her boys were just toddlers, running around the house, playing Pirates and Navy. "It's good to have friends, Sherlock. It's not weakness. Next to family, they're the most important thing."

_Which is why I don't want them near anything that could make them end up like you_, Sherlock thought to himself.

"Of course, Mother," he said instead. He could feel her hand shaking and looked warily at the cup of water and bowl of glass-like beads on the nightstand. The gas swirling in them glinted, even in the weak light.

"So formal," Almeda patted Sherlock's cheek and clicked her tongue. "You're eight years old, darling. Don't the rest of your friends still say Mummy?"

_Ah. So I'm eight today. Mycroft must have said something._

"I know, Mummy," Sherlock raised the pitch of his voice slightly and played the script exactly as he always did when it was time to leave his mother's bedside. Covertly, he slipped two of beads into the cup of water. Their glass-like casing dissolved, and the gas inside fizzed, frothing up the water. When it had stopped bubbling, he undid the top of a medicine bottle and extracted a sleeping aid pill. "I just wanted to show you that I was a big boy, because I'm going to be a detective when I grow up. I'm studying very hard. Detectives have to be very smart. Here's your vitamin, Mummy."

He could tell her half truths. Even if she was a little lost in his timeline, Almeda remembered him fully, and wholly. There was no reason why he couldn't let her know about his aspirations, even if it was presented in a childlike way.

"My sweet boy," Almeda took the pill from her son, placing it daintily on her tongue and draining the glass. Her hands stopped shaking almost immediately. "You'll make a wonderful detective."

"Yes, it'll be a dream come true, like heaven. Beautiful clouds, wonderful music, and a long holiday all at once," Sherlock rattled off a list of pleasant images as he shuffled off, back into the shadows before standing. He wanted to leave his mother's subconscious with something nice to work with, and there was no need to confuse it with a six-foot-tall, eight-year-old son.

"Yes. Like heaven," Almeda said dreamily and Sherlock could see her waving a hand lazily in the air as though she were conducting an invisible orchestra. Good. Let the angels sing her to sleep.

"Good night, Mummy," Sherlock whispered, as he tip-toed out the door. He closed it gently and let the sleeping pill do its work.

"I think she's doing rather well these days. She hasn't had a fit in weeks. Small miracles in time for the holidays, you might say."

Sherlock spun around and found him face to face with a noticeably umbrella-less Mycroft. The younger boy's irritation turned to contented self-satisfaction. Obviously Mycroft had been unable to locate it since Sherlock stuffed it in the back of his closet.

"Is Father home yet?"

Sherlock strode quickly past his older brother and down the stairs. He could smell turkey in the dining room, and actually found himself to be a bit hungry. Plopping down in a chair, he began to tearing into the dinner set out for him. The kitchen servants had ensured that the Christmas turkey was rather moist this year.

"Still at work," Mycroft said, catching up with his little brother and taking the seat across from him. He tucked a cloth napkin into his collar and elegantly cut a small bite of his meal. Two plates lay untouched at the other ends of the table.

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt to show that he heard and started on his sweet potatoes.

"He's doing everything he can to fix this, Sherlock, and you know that. It isn't his fault. We're going to find the ones who took his work and did this to Mummy."

Sherlock clenched his fists and shoved a forkful of cranberry sauce into his mouth.

"He loves us very much. That's why he's still there, trying to fix this."

"That doesn't mean he isn't a fool," Sherlock spat. "He's a grown man. He should have known that those bastards at Baskerville would take every good bit of work he did and turn it into a weapon. It took until someone stole it and used it on Mummy for him to realize what they'd done. Yet he's _still there_. And now it seems like the whole world wants a piece of it. Or have you already forgotten that lovely bath I had in the garden?"

Mycroft frowned. "He'll fix this."

"_I'll _fix this."

Sherlock continued to shovel food into his mouth, and Mycroft just stared. Finally, the older Holmes brother sighed and pulled out a toy wrapped up with a bow. Sherlock looked at it and quirked an eyebrow.

"The Action Man you broke when I was a kid," he murmured. That must have been why his mother thought he was eight today. The toy had triggered some sort of memory.

"Re-outfitted for your safety of course," Mycroft undid the bow, and if Sherlock looked very, very closely, he could see a small camera hidden in the logo on Action Man's chest.

"And what makes you think that I would _willingly_ let you spy on me at school?" Sherlock pushed the gift back towards Mycroft.

"You've utterly _destroyed_ anything I've tried to install for your safety without your knowledge, so perhaps if I _tell_ you what to look for you'll be a bit better behaved. You can put it wherever you like as long as it's in 221B. And if you do, I'll tell Anthea to stop breaking into the boy's dormitories."

Sherlock scowled. Her constant break-ins to install cameras that he would later have to find and crush underfoot were almost as annoying as the crush John had developed on her months ago.

"It'll be in the back of my closet under an unwashed towel," Sherlock growled, revealing both his plans for the toy and the location of the umbrella he had stolen.

Mycroft perked up and nodded his head with a smile. It was slightly less terse than the one he usually regarded Sherlock with. He pulled the cork from a wine bottle in the middle of the table and poured both of them a glass.

"Aren't you on a diet?" Sherlock quipped as his brother handed him a small helping of red wine.

"It's a special occasion," Mycroft swirled the liquid in his glass and inhaled. It was sweet, but pungent. _Not unlike coming home_, he mused before lifting the flute high in the air. "To better Christmas dinners."

The younger boy smirked lopsidedly. Mycroft wasn't referring to the food, and Sherlock could drink to that. He touched the side of his glass to Mycroft's, and it let out a short ring, clear as a bell.

* * *

_Author's Note:__ It is with the heaviest of hearts that I inform you that I am not the creative owner of BBC's Sherlock, nor am I one of Baker Street's residents myself. However, I do hope that you enjoyed the fifth installment of Strangers Like Me. If y'all notice any inconsistencies or have any suggestions, feel free to point them out. _

_Looks like the hallucinogenic gas is making an appearance in this story, albeit in a slightly different form. Let's see where this takes us._

_Best,_

_MebbeSumday _


End file.
